


The Shadow of Steve Looks a lot like Bucky

by spinachmachine



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Figuring out the plot is more of a you problem than a me problem, HOOOOOO BOY, I am not gonna go into graphic detail though, I'm just sitting in my pjs drinking tea with a blanket living my best life, I'm not gonna tag them though, Implied/Referenced Torture, It'll angst ya, It's the angstiest!, Nothin's angstier, We got some assorted Avengers, Y'all want some angst?, in case you're looking for them-specific stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 07:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26469145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinachmachine/pseuds/spinachmachine
Summary: Post-Hydra Bucky recovery story.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

It had been months since he moved in with the Avengers, but he could have sworn it was days, hours even. Time no longer felt real to him, he guessed that was what happened when someone was frozen and unfrozen repeatedly for the better half of the 20th century, if there was a better half of the 20th century. The brainwashing didn’t help either. He felt lost in his own head. He never knew if he was supposed to know someone or if they knew him, and what for. Security was increased once news got out he was the newest Avenger resident. More than once unmarked packages arrived at the tower, twice now bombs and more death threats than Bucky had memories. The death threats were nothing, and he was sure he deserved every one of them. He knew he killed a lot of people, a lot of good people, he couldn’t remember very many of them, but the ones he did kept him up at night.

Bucky sat at the kitchen island, thoughts interrupted only by the clattering of breakfast being placed in front of him along with the kitchen knife he put out for reasons he couldn’t explain. Even then it took him a moment to process where he was and that he was not in danger.

“Where’d you go, Buck?” Steve asked, sitting down next to him,

“Nowhere,” Bucky said, trying hard not to sound mechanical.

Adjusting to life was hard, still was hard. When he first starting living at the tower he would sit for hours staring at nothing in particular. He still sat there, waiting for his next order, his next kill, but now he could pull himself out of it sometimes. It had been so long since he had the ability to choose what to do, longer still since he had free time-he could remember that much. He remembered waking up before sunrise and working down at the docks on an empty stomach until after dark. He remembered HYDRA never telling him what to do, but pushing him around, guns pointed at him, and words. He couldn’t even think about those words in his head without his blood running cold. The fact those words still existed terrified him, the fact they were still recorded somewhere was worse.

“Hey,” Steve’s voice rang through his head, “What’s going on?”

“It’s...” Bucky’s voice trailed off, “it’s nothing.”

“C’mon, Bucky,” Steve said, “you know you can tell me anything.”

Steve put his hand on the back of Bucky’s neck. It took everything in him not to reject Steve. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Steve touching him; it was that he felt he didn’t deserve it. Steve was a beacon of light, hope, justice, he was Captain Fucking America. Who was Bucky? He was dirty, tarnished, a monster. Still, Bucky resisted his warped instinct and leaned into the touch as much as he could allow himself.  
“...so anyways, there I was with Spider-Man standing over me, ended up with a concussion, but no broken bones,” Clint Barton walked into the living area accompanied by Natasha.

Steve dropped his hand from Bucky and stared down intently at the stack of pancakes he made.

“Hey, guys,” Clint said, “What’s for breakfast?”

“Hey,” Steve said naturally, “I made pancakes, want some?”

Natasha looked at Bucky, “Can he cook?”

Bucky shrugged, “I would tell you if I knew.”

Natasha and Bucky had met before, apparently. She never really talked about it, but it was always an implication in their bond. When he remembered, if he remembered, he could bring it up with her. Until then, it was probably for the better.

“Well,” Clint said, “I’m willing to find out.”

He walked around the island and grabbed two forks and plates, careful to keep his distance from Bucky. Bucky understood, he would keep his distance too if he could.

“So, how’s the arm?” Steve asked, “I know you were working with Tony on that.”

“The same,” Bucky replied, voice flat.

Fuck, he was sounding mechanical again.

Steve looked up from dividing the stack of pancakes into four, a look of concern across his face. Bucky looked back at him, his jaw shut tightly waiting for a blow that wouldn’t come. Steve knew the arm hurt, the entire thing was an experiment that never ended. The old wiring never removed, only built on as HYDRA technology became more sophisticated.

“Is there syrup?” Natasha asked, breaking their gaze at each other.

She gave Bucky a knowing look as Steve reached in the cupboard below for it.

“Thank you,” she said as she took it from Steve.

She had never seen his scars that he knew. If she did, there was no effort to make it known. Clint hadn’t either, but he knew of them.

“Pass that here, Nat,” Clint said with a mouth full.

Natasha passed the syrup over to Clint, who doused his pancakes until they were swimming on his plate. The rest of breakfast was almost pleasant, Clint and Natasha making every effort to keep the conversation light, or at least as light as an ex-Russian assassin and killer marksman could make it. Steve joined in the conversation, hesitant at first as though the conversation would cause Bucky to lapse, but warming up to friends quickly. Bucky stayed quiet, feeling out the dynamic, listening to everything. Afterwards Natasha and Clint offered to clean up.

“Who knew, Cap can cook,” Clint said as he grabbed the dishes from the table, hesitant at grabbing the one from under Bucky.

“Did you think I would boil everything?” Steve asked, “I picked up a few things from the 21st century.”

“Where is Sam these days?” Natasha smirked, looking at Bucky and Steve’s reactions.

“Coast of Malta, para-rescue,” Steve said with a practised nonchalance.

“Is that what it’s called?” Natasha asked as she grabbed another plate from Clint to dry.

Bucky knew about Steve and Sam, it didn’t bother him. Steve was allowed to do whatever or whoever he wanted in the 21st century. Bucky would have hit that too if he hadn’t ripped Sam’s wings off of him and threw him off a helicarrier. He was sure he did other things too, but that was the only one he could remember.

“Well,” Steve smirked, “You’ll have to take that up with him. He hated my suggestions.”

“I think ‘leaving the nest’ was excellent,” Clint said, “Remind me to use it some time.”

Steve sat a moment longer and rubbed his stomach. It was something Bucky noticed he did after a good meal and for a moment Bucky could almost remember. A small boy, he could piece together, mostly skin and bones, his collarbone jutting out through the top of his shirt. His bangs falling in his face as he scarfed down the tiny ration before him, the only thing slowing him down was the worryingly persistent cough.

“Buck?” Steve asked, instinctively putting his hand over Bucky’s.

Bucky tried to piece the words together, “You had a cough.”

Steve smiled, “I had a lot of them.”

“This one wouldn’t shake,” Bucky specified, “Winter was coming, and it wouldn’t shake.”

“1942,” Steve said, “I remember that. You were sure I would make it, told me I was-“

“-Too stubborn to die.” Bucky finished.

“Yeah,” Steve’s face lit up, “Guess you were right on that one.”

After breakfast Steve got up and headed to his quarters, Bucky trailed behind. 

“The bathroom’s free if you want to shower,” Steve said, grabbing his clothes for the day.

He hadn’t realised they had already reached their destination until he was there. He pushed the rising fear down at the thought of his clipped memory only moments before.

“Do I need to shower?” Bucky asked,

“Do you want to?” Steve inquired.

Bucky furrowed his brow and stared through Steve. He had free will, he knew that, but he didn’t. Free will was never a physical object, it was mental. As much as Steve tried to coax him into making decisions, he couldn’t, not unless they were tactical. With HYDRA his choices were never really his, only programming in his head to give him the cleanest kill, the most efficient means to an end.

“It’s fine if you don’t,” Steve said, dropping the question, “We should probably get you to Stark and Banner if your arm is giving you problems.”

Bucky didn’t argue.


	2. Chapter 2

The windows of the lab overlooked Tony’s workshop, floor to ceiling windows on three sides gave everyone an in on what Banner was doing. It was his idea, said it was to keep an eye on the big guy. He spent his life willingly contained. 

“Buck?” Steve said, 

Bucky couldn’t understand it, but guessed that was within his choice.

“Yeah,” He responded distractedly.

“Barnes,” Banner said, “We can’t do anything big yet, the arm is too complicated, it’s like the more we learn about it the less we know. We can almost predict where the next malfunction will be, but we can’t predict when or how.”

“We’re pretty much putting out the fires as they come,” Stark shouted out from the workshop below, “JARVIS, pull up the schematics for arm comma winter soldier.”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS said,

Stark lifted his welding mask and examined the repulsor, “Oh, and set up a comm link to Banner.”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS said.

A holographic Tony Stark appeared in the lab before them.

“As far as we know, you have a walking time bomb on you,” Tony’s hologram said, pacing back and for like the real one below, “the fact it hasn’t gone off yet is a mystery.”

Bucky wasn’t surprised. The arm was just another leash HYDRA had on him, constant repairs kept him close enough to always be ready to be brainwashed. The tracker in the arm was still active too, unable to be deactivated without detonating the arm itself. Luckily, Tony was able to able to reroute the signal to a fence somewhere in Lithuania.

“I have a new arm in the works, but it’s gonna take time,” Tony said, “and I need more information on this one. I need to detach it without setting it off, or you. No offense.”

Steve shot hologram-Stark a look, but didn’t say anything.

“There’s gotta be records of what they did,” Stark said,

“We’ve searched every HYDRA base we’ve encountered and nothing,” Steve said, his voice growing defensive.

“They kept Frozone over here deep,” Stark’s hologram said, “We need to look harder, Stark out.”

The hologram disappeared and below Tony went back to work on the dismembered iron suit like before, the inner workings spilling out onto the floor.

“That’s not Frozone,” Bucky said quietly,

“Some scans would help,” Banner said.

Bucky nodded. He pulled his shirt over his head and avoided eye contact. It was better that way. He knew too well what the left side of his body looked like. He knew the way metal fused to flesh, the gouges of skin clawed out and never healed properly. He would dig his fingers in under the attachment and pull until there was blood and the pain flooded his vision. He didn’t remember those exact memories, but he knew the scars were his doing. His nails fit too perfectly in the scoring of his flesh and his flinching too quick when he ran his fingers over them.

“How’s the memory been?” Bruce said, focusing on the screen before him.

“About the same,” Bucky said,

“He had a memory this morning,” Steve added, “from ’42.”

“That’s something,” Bruce said, “How’s the short term memory?”

Bucky didn’t answer, that his silence would be enough.

If Steve had a reaction, he kept it close. He took everything with a brave face, but Bucky knew his eyes said enough, they always did. Before this, the Avengers, Bucky stood on a helicarrier and looked at his last mission. He remembered the face that stared back, the emotion in his eyes like the relentless waves of a storm that crashed against the shore without mercy.

“There we go, and we’re done,” Banner’s words pulled Bucky back into the present.

Bucky rubbed his eyes with his right hand. Laughter exploded from the table. Emptied plates scraped clean of food sat at each person, remnants of the meal still sat in the middle. Steve sat on his left, the skin around his eyes crinkled as he let out a laugh from deep within his belly. 

Shit, what happened to this morning? 

Bucky scanned the room to piece everything together. Outside the sky was an inky blue. Streetlights speckled along the horizon. The lights inside glaring down, concrete floors, the red chairs, too red, laughter too loud.

Bucky stood up jerkily, his hand on the table to keep himself steady.

“I need some air,” he let out a weak smile before leaving the table of concerned faces.

Bucky found himself in the gym. The smell of sweat and vinyl was familiar; it was almost comforting if it weren’t an assault on the nostrils. Physical activity had always been a stress reliever. Working down at the docks, he remembered, the satisfying thwack as he stacked flour on top of each other. He’d come home wiped, too tired to argue with his sisters and sleep soundly enough to do it all the next day. He punched hard, the heavy bag swung from the ceiling. He missed the connectedness of his memories. Now they were scattered and everyone dead, everyone except him and Steve. He never wanted to go back to HYDRA, but at least what little swam in his head then he could keep in order.

He shook his head, nothing could be worse than HYDRA. It was them who did this to him, he reminded himself. Bucky kept punching, the heavy bag swung harder but he refused to let up. If it weren’t for HYDRA he wouldn’t be here, he wouldn’t have fallen from that train, or kidnapped, or experimented on. But, he would have still been conscripted, wouldn’t he? He could have been killed on some other front line, blown apart by shells, or maybe he would have survived. Maybe he would have returned to poverty, shell shocked, unable to recover. Maybe it was for the best.

“No,” He said aloud,

This time his punch broke the heavy bag clean off its tether, HYDRA had no right to do that to him.

“Wow,”

Bucky turned around and saw Steve standing just inside the gym, his being contrasting the red and grey of the gym, “Tony built that so even I couldn’t break it. ‘Gotta say I’m impressed.”

“I’ll tell him you weakened it first,” Bucky smirked,

Steve let out a smile as he watched a glimpse of the Bucky he knew return.

“I’m surprised you didn’t follow me,” Bucky said, his voice returning to the one he knew.

“Clint and Nat practically nailed me to my chair, told me that you need some space every now and then,” Steve explained as he walked closer,

“They’re good people,”

Bucky looked down at the heavy bag,

“Buck,”

“What if the old me never returns?”

Steve opened his mouth to say something, but voted against it. Instead he placed his hand on Bucky’s cheek, his thumb rubbing against his cheekbone. Bucky wanted to lean into the touch, but his cheek was too rough for the softness Steve gave him.

“How can you forgive me?” Bucky murmured,

“What do you mean?” Steve said,

“After everything I did,” He started but couldn’t finish,

“That wasn’t you,” Steve said.

It was. It was all Bucky had. He could remember wanting to kill Steve before he could remember anything else.

“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line,” Bucky said, reliving the memory.

Steve smiled.

Bucky didn’t argue.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky’s arm malfunctions months later.

He’s sitting on the couch at the Avengers Compound with the TV on when it happens. He didn’t recognize what was playing, some sitcom, but it was mostly background noise. Steve sat at the kitchen island reading some classified document, his face resting on his fists as he hovered over the words. Bucky had just finished a banana and had got up to throw the peel out when his arm went dead. He dropped to his knees with a grunt and held his shoulder.

“Buck!” Steve exclaimed as he ran over,

“My arm,” he said through gritted teeth, “I need Stark.”

Steve helped him up and walked him down the hall, trying his best at encouraging words. Steve wasn’t meant for that though. He was built for sucking blood from his split lip and talking back to those who looked at him the wrong way.

“Its fine,” Bucky said, leaning against the wall, “I got this.”

“No, you don’t,” Steve retorted, “C’mon, we’re almost to the elevator.”

When they finally reach Stark’s workshop Tony is elbow deep in holographic blueprints.

“Tony,” Steve calls out.

Tony looks up in time to see Bucky stumble into a cart.

“Shit,” he says, “Why didn’t you tell JARVIS to tell me?”

Bucky and Steve look at each other, of course they could have just brought Tony to them instead of going half way across the compound.

“JARVIS, get Bruce for me,” Tony says and gets a ‘right away, sir’ from the AI.

“It feels like my arm is rotting off,” Bucky forces out.

A couple moments later and Bucky is sitting on a work stool with red flames on the seat while Banner and Stark pour over his arm. Steve was sent off elsewhere, his pacing made the stress of navigating around the time bomb attached him while fixing the malfunction worse. He never liked maintenance on his arm. The smell of singing flesh always followed closely. He used to wince too, at particularly sharp stings, flashes of light out of his peripheral vision as metal was fused to him. Not anymore, though, now he just bounces his leg. He doesn’t realize he’s been muttering in Russian either until Natasha walks in.

“You make them uncomfortable when you do that,” She says in the same language.

“They’ve been at it for hours now,” he responds,

“What did you normally do when HYDRA did this?”

“Mission debriefings. Or nothing.”

“Hmm,” she shrugs, “I came by to see if you wanted to spar, but it appears you can’t.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Another time?” she asks,

“Yeah,” he says in English.

“Boys,” she calls out in English as she walks off, “Did you give him something for the pain?”

Stark and Banner look up from his arm with wide eyes.

“Just finish the arm,” Bucky does his best not to sound in pain when he speaks.

He doesn’t remember much of the details of the afternoon. Not because his memory is piece-y, but because it was a blur. The pain from his arm made him feel like he was floating before finally subsiding. Stark and Banner managed to get his arm back to normal, and seemed to fix another malfunction before it could happen, which was apparently a ‘big win.’ Stark estimated that he wouldn’t have another arm malfunction for another six months, but that was an estimate. He also gave an estimate for the new arm to be about two years, which was less than ideal, but the last timeline was five years so he would take what he could get. Afterwards Clint invited him to shooting practice which was where Steve found him.

“Good news,” Steve greeted the two men, “soon you’ll be cleared for missions. Not big missions, but missions none the less.”

Bucky let out a grunt as he shot at a moving target, hitting it just below the centre.

“Thought you’d be happy about that,” Clint said, shooting the same target with his arrow.

“So did I,” Steve added,

He had done enough missions to last two lifetimes, maybe even three. He never wanted this, Steve wanted this. Steve wanted to be the hero, be the one to save the day. Even without his memories he could tell with the way Steve threw himself into the fight. Bucky couldn't remember the last time he had seen Steve back down, whatever hill he was willing to die on he wasn't going down without a fight. Bucky shook the thought of Steve beneath his fists as the helicarrier collapsed around them from his head. He didn't say anything, instead he shot the moving target again, this time sending three bullets perfectly through the centre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter entirely and I am a lot happier with it, however I will be incorporating parts of the original chapter into later chapters because there were parts I did, in fact, like. If you read it you got a sneak peak, if you didn't, you're in for a treat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever. I swear I rewrote it no less than three times.  
> This chapter for about a month started off with "Jesus Christ, I cannot write this chapter for shit."
> 
> What changed? I have to assignments due in four days both worth about 30% of my grade and I've barely started them both.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy.
> 
> UPDATE: I did both assignments and one of my profs nominated me for an award. Honestly, the best part of the nomination is knowing I'm not failing. Thank you for the kudos and comments, they really do be keeping me going on this.

Bucky is seated in the center of the couch when Steve returns from a mission, right where he left him staring off at nothing in particular. Steve isn’t alone; he never is after a mission. Back up, Bucky concluded, but didn’t blame him; he wasn’t sure what they would find when Steve returned either.

“…for a shower,” Bucky managed to make out, “that room still free?”

There’s a moment before someone answers, “Yeah, go ahead.”

Natasha.

Finally, Bucky looked up, his muted reflection in the powerless television screen staring back. He thought it was on, he knew it was on. There was a-  
-a news anchor on the grainy TV speaking in French, his comb over failing to hide his receding hairline. A man laid out unnaturally at his feet, his blood splattered across Bucky’s boots. The still lit cigarette balanced carefully on the ashtray. The smell was cheap, like-

Why did he kill this man?

-the ones shared around the fire. He’d been cold for days, days of tirelessly trudging through the snow to make the rendezvous point. Dum Dum kept a carton of the cheap ones in his shirt pocket, refusing to give anybody one until they could finally set up camp, even for only a night. They couldn’t sing his praises enough once the cigarettes were passed around.

Mission Report.

“Buck?”

-He was told to make sure there were no survivors. Kill the man, kill any witnesses. He stayed on the rooftop for hours waiting for his target. By hour six his handler’s patience had worn thin and the asset disobeyed orders, leaving his post to kill the target with his hands. He knew he would be punished for it, but he would have been punished for something anyway.

Bucky doesn’t feel the hand on his shoulder until it squeezes firmly, careful not to be rough, only to notify him it’s there.

He doesn’t flinch, the asset never flinches.

Mission Report.

“Are you there?”

Steve’s face comes into focus, the look of concern spread across his face. Natasha stands next to him, relaxed but alert. Sam stands behind them both as back up.

When did Sam come in?

“What time is it?” Bucky asked, voice rough and gravelly.

When did he last speak?

“It’s quarter to seven,” Steve answers dropping his hand, “Did you eat?”

The asset shook his head before opening his mouth and closing it again.

“What is it?” Steve asks,

The asset fixed his gaze on the corner of the coffee table as if it would keep things from getting worse. As though looking into the eyes of the people in the room would keep their hands off him, or off the switch of the chair that killed everything he is. He knew it wasn’t true, that no matter how hard he begged he would sit in that chair and go white from pain. But if he could do what they wanted willingly, perhaps he could save himself from the unnecessary bruises.

“What’s my mission?” The asset asked.

He could see the way the muscles in Steve’s jaw tensed.

“Buck, you don’t have a mission,” Steve answered, his arm reaching out for the man in front of him, “You aren’t with HYDRA anymore.”

The asset flinched.

The asset never flinches.

“I need my mission,” he insists,

“Shit,” Sam muttered under his breath.

“Buck…” Steve’s voice trails off.

“Why don’t we get you something to eat,” Sam suggests, “Maybe a shower?”

The asset didn’t answer.

His eyes searched Steve’s for something other than the sadness that flooded the blue of his irises. They were familiar, but there should have been anger in them, or maybe defiance. Emotion had long since beaten out of the asset, but he could recognize them in others. He could remember the faint, frost bitten memory of banging on the cryogenic tank, his frantic breath clouding the glass window as his fists got slower in the cold.

“That sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it?” Natasha answers, “Steve?”

There is a pause before he answers in agreement.

“I have protein bars in the cupboard,” he says,

Natasha is the one who goes to get them.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?” Sam places his hand on Steve’s shoulder, “Over there?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, getting up and following him down the hall.

The asset can hear parts of the conversation, but tries his best not to. He knows from previous experiences not to eavesdrop on superior officers. That it means stress positions, or worse.

“…Shouldn’t have left him alone. I-”

“Hey…not your fault, remember… and there are bad days. We-"

A protein bar is placed in front of him on the coffee table. Natasha slumps into the corner of the sectional and puts her feet up. The crinkling of the protein bar she grabbed for herself a distraction from the conversation.

“Never really a fan of these,” She says between bites, “but I guess if I needed to consume as many calories as you two I wouldn’t be complaining as much.”

The asset cautiously took the protein bar from in front of him. He unwrapped the bar and took a bite. Almonds, blueberries, and lemon. The almonds crunched-

-underfoot, the snow seeping into his boots. His breath came out in vapoured puffs through his mask. It was too dangerous for his handler to go; the asset had to go alone. But, no one was there. The place was empty. Later he coughed blood onto the cement floor, guns trained on him in case he tried to fight back. He never did.

Bucky doesn’t realize he’s shaking until the arms around him squeeze tighter. The room was dark, the only light coming from around the door from the other room. It took him a moment longer to understand he was lying on top of the bed, and that the low groan when he shifted wasn’t his.

“Steve?” Bucky lifted his head.

“Yeah?” a voice answered from behind him,

Bucky didn’t answer back.

“How are you?” Steve asked, “You gave us quite a scare.”

Bucky and tried to process the moments he could remember leading up to the present.

“God, they just kept coming,” He said in a muffled voice as he burrowed his face into the pillow.

“Memories?” Steve asked,

“Yeah,” Bucky answered.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Steve asked,

Bucky turned his head until he was staring out at the wall before him, not that he could really see it.

“Not really,” he finally said,

“Okay,” Steve said, “Is there anything I can do?”

Bucky shifted slightly and brought his right hand up to touch the embrace wrapped around him.

“This is nice,” He said,

Steve let out a little laugh that Bucky could feel on the back of his neck and felt the electricity travel down his spine.

“I can do that,” Steve said shifting slightly to get comfortable.

Bucky kept still, he couldn’t quite relax, not until he could hear the deep breath of Steve behind finally giving into sleep. Then, inch by inch, he started to relax, eased his muscles into a slightly more relaxed position. He would never be able to let go completely, but perhaps just a little, just for now. He couldn’t argue with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know how the spacing is, I want to make sure you can see the breaks easily when you're all bleary-eyed on your phone in bed.


End file.
